


every colour illuminates

by emptyhalf



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Coming Out, M/M, Threesome - M/M/M, Trans Male Character, relationship progression, trans!george, uh like just a rambling exploration of queerness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:22:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28550829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emptyhalf/pseuds/emptyhalf
Summary: George doesn’t tell him until they’re in F2. Until the slow, weird dance they’ve been doing around each other has reached a point where it’s got to come out anyway because they’re young men and they’re going to do this.Lando, predictably unpredictable, does not react any of the ways he expects - straightforward and dramatic in different directions, like a bursting water balloon.(complete now, in all three parts)
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Daniel Ricciardo (background), Charles Leclerc/Lando Norris/George Russell, Lando Norris/George Russell
Comments: 34
Kudos: 88





	1. dressed up all in blue

**Author's Note:**

> ok so. 
> 
> this is my fic; I originally posted it as two separate works and then had to delete it when I nuked my account cus of a stalker problem - I felt very bad about it because it seemed to mean a lot to some people and I nearly just orphaned it but I always intended to come back and add a third part, reposted as chapters now because that makes most sense
> 
> obviously this is loosely based on real people but mostly extrapolating them completely to tell a queer story in F1 cus like, that is what I like to write. 
> 
> George is very briefly, once, misgendered in the first few paragraphs but it's treated as a mistake and doesn't happen again. this isn't about queer-as-issues, it's about finding ways to work things out.
> 
> work & chapter titles from Spectrum (Say My Name) by Florence & The Machine

**Buckmore Park, 2017**

The nice thing about Lando, when they get to know each other, is that they just get on. Him, Alex, Lando - they’re the weird kids.

Alex can never find any of his stuff and doesn’t know where he’s supposed to be, Lando knows but has anxiety or something that stops his brain functioning when it needs to and George has a nice, sensible folder full of all the information for every karting weekend. It makes him feel very in control. Very like everything’s right, even on a stupid reunion weekend for a charity event.

Handing out the print-outs to them (their races neatly highlighted in orange for Lando and a searing, neon blue for Alex) though, something goes wrong.

“Fucking _lol,_ G,” Alex is cackling, reading the entry list and George feels himself grin, feral in anticipation of which old rival they can gloriously shred together. “They’ve put you down as a girl. ”

George doesn’t react. Goes sniper-still, tries to not think. “What?”

“Georg🀫🀫🀫 Russell, GBR - it’s definitely you, got your number and everything - did you tick the wrong box?”

He exhales, mind blank. This isn’t happening. “I must have, yeah.”

There’s a competition in his brain between roaring static and a sensible voice telling him to go and sort it. It must be an old record, at Buckmore, from years ago and they’ll just update it and it will all be fine.

Lando’s fingers on George’s chin distract him from the warzone between denial and doing. “Hmm, no, pretty sure I’m still the girl. G’s got more beard than you, Al.”

Alex laughs ruefully, “Yeah, Alexandra and Landrette would be way prettier - sorry George.”

“I’m not a - a fucking _washing machine_.” Lando dives at Alex for an ill-advised wrestle he immediately loses, both of them already laughing it off and George remembers that exhaling is important for not passing out. Which would really put a damper on the racing.

\-----

**Circuit of the Americas, 2020**

Lando tucks himself against George’s chest, distractedly fiddling with his phone even as he aggressively snuggles into George’s hoodie. It’d be annoying, if it wasn’t so nice and it’s not like Lando’s heavy or awkward to have against him.

George tucks an arm around him, listens to Lando huffing while he’s having what looks like a slightly fraught WhatsApp back-and-forth with Charlotte about a Sky interview that, from the sweary bits George can see, looking down through Lando’s fringe, seems to have gone quite wrong. “What happened? Johnny forget you’ve had a podium again?”

Lando exhales noisily, “ Two. And no, it was - you know I fucking hate it when they make _jokes_. ”

George hums, catching the intonation. Lando gets _jokes_ , about being little and pretty and something new and interesting and novel as though he has to explain himself to them. “Yeah. Me too.”

George doesn’t get _jokes_ during his interviews, accepted into the lad crowd - their own laugh, for years.

“I might have gone off a bit.” Lando says it quietly, guiltily. Which says it wasn’t only _a bit._

“How bad was it?” George brings him closer, bundles Lando onto his lap and lets him lean closer, head on George’s shoulder and legs across his thighs. “Does Lazenby still have eyebrows?”

Lando grimaces and George feels it against his neck. “Pretty bad. I’m not taking it back.”

George thinks for a moment, takes Lando’s phone out of his hands and puts it on the sofa behind them. “Oh really?”

Lando nods, scrutinising George with his lips a thin, nervous line. “Sorry. I mean - I don’t know, it could’ve been a joke but it wasn’t.”

It feels a lot like there’s more to it than that, so he rubs fingers up Lando’s ankle, soothing and encouraging, to get the rest out. “I just think. It’s stupid to pretend it’s ok to have to hide. Because that’s, like, agreeing with it? And like, I don’t want to - fuck that. So I’m not going to anymore.”

He pauses and George almost expects some shakiness, a drawn-in breath but Lando sounds steely when he carries on, “So this is no pressure, you do what you want and whatever but I’m out.”

George’s heart stops, “Of - F1? Or us?”

Lando _thumps_ him, making an exasperated half-snarling noise, like he’s performing extremely amateur CPR. “ The _closet_ , you fucking moron.”

“Oh. _Right_ .” George thinks about it for a moment, while his heart and brain are restarting. Lando snuggles closer, looking for reassurance and George is only happy to wrap him up against him.

\-----

**Austin-Bergstrom International Airport, 2020**

“I always knew,” says Alex.

“Did you?” Lando sounds surprised and George tries to hide his smile because. Yeah. Alex has a point.

“Lando, you had a _poster_ of me. You had a crush on me for like three years before you even knew what having a crush was, it was adorable.” Alex isn’t being mean, it really was.

Tiny Lando trailing them round the paddock, watching from a distance, stumbling over his words whenever they “accidentally” crossed paths after he’d carefully set it all up. Gazing at Alex like he was the coolest thing Lando had ever seen - very relatable, from George’s perspective.

“Hmm.” Lando frowns at his shoes, rubbing the toes together. “Sorry.”

Alex shrugs, apologetic, “It’s just a shame I’m straight, dude.”

“Sad times for both of us really,” George slings his arm round Lando’s shoulders, “Just as well we’d got each other for comfort.”

\-----

**Bahrain, 2018**

George doesn’t tell him until they’re in F2. Until the slow, weird dance they’ve been doing around each other has reached a point where it’s got to come out anyway because they’re young men and they’re going to do this.

Lando, predictably unpredictable, does not react any of the ways he expects - straightforward and dramatic in different directions, like a bursting water balloon.

“But you’re so tall-” it looks like he catches himself, realising that’s the wrong thing to say, except; “it’s not fair.”

George takes a shaky breath, on the edge of laughing. “Lando, you’re five foot three and have the biggest dick anyone’s ever poked my arse with - fuck off.”

Lando has the sheer nerve to look _surprised_ by that and George can’t tell if it’s the idea he’s hung or that George has had anyone else’s hard-on near him. Albon’s nice to cuddle, ok.

“Anyway, just like - shut up. I really don’t - like -” George gestures helplessly at himself, “this.”

“ _I_ do.” Lando says it determinedly, the same way as when he’s being bullish about something in a race, “You’re fucking hot.”

George is so taken aback he doesn’t bother to even weakly fight back when Lando climbs onto his lap, hands high on George’s chest, fingers curled over his shoulders. Doesn’t bother to try and turn it into wrestling because it’s not, now - they’ve broken that illusion with his sudden behind-the- scenes confession about how it’s all choreography and costumes.

Lando’s mouth is hot and tastes of guacamole, George is acutely aware he’s just scoffed a bag of cheese and onion crisps himself. It’s not romantic. “You told me ‘cause you want this, right?”

It sounds nervous, more like Lando’s usual skittishness about whatever their thing is - or anything like this. “Yeah.” Lando’s fingers move in small circles on George’s shoulders, rucking his shirt and he realises he ought to put his hands on Lando, opts for his arse because, well, it’s nice.

Lando is vibrating, nervous, his legs shifting on George’s lap and he makes a soft noise when George grabs him, closing his eyes for a second before he speaks. “Ok well, I want it. With you.”

They kiss for a minute, closed-mouth and nervous, working it out. “Thanks for telling me, too.”

\-----

**Abu Dhabi, 2018**

Lando gets teased about it and George doesn’t, a paragon of manliness. It’s reassuring, validating and George basks in it a bit except that if he fucks up, clearly they _care_.

It doesn’t stop him, obviously - mullering Lando and Alex in F2 feels _great_ and getting the F1 seat is, very literally, a dream come true. After the last race, they fall into bed together and Lando’s pliant, breathless underneath George, his dick wet between their abs.

Lando wraps his legs round George’s hips, pulls him in and it’s so blatantly _suggestive_ it makes George snort in frustration, bury his face in Lando’s shoulder and grit out “Argh, I want to _fuck_ you.”

The man underneath him squirms, turned on at the idea and George huffs again when he says “Then do it.”

George kneels back, trying to unhook Lando, glaring at him. “Are you _that_ stupid?”

Lando glares right back, eyes full of the flashing hotness he gets when he’s angry or horny that overrides all kinds of things in George’s brain. “ _No_. Use your fingers, idiot - or we can get something, at home.”

It turns out to be very satisfying, fucking Lando. Watching him gasp, legs shaking and pushing himself back on George’s hand, asking for more with his eyes screwed as shut as his thighs are flung open and sweat flushing across his collarbone.

He doesn’t need his dick touched to come. Not if George follows the frantic-whispered instructions about where to put pressure and _more_ and seeing Lando flex on George’s fingers, whining about how good it feels, is enough to make George kind of lightheaded.

Lando’s noisy even with his own knuckles in his mouth to try and stifle it and he look so wrecked, covered in his own cum and blushing and trembling that there’s nothing even George can convince himself that was lacking. When Lando gets him off, a bit later, George feels confident enough to sit on his face and watch Lando look blissful, submissive, mouth open and drool smeared everywhere.

He’s the big spoon, that night. It’s more equal than it probably should be, given how tiny Lando is but George likes it best this way round. Lando kisses his wrist, where George’s arm is pillowing his head and wriggles back against him, mumbles congratulations to George for the championship and vague threats about getting him back next season, in the big boy cars.

\-----

**Silverstone, 2021**

They get a podium together and it’s just as well Max is standing in between them because George is crawling out of his _skin_ with adrenaline and he’s not sure what he’d do if he was within arm’s reach of Lando.

His heart is thumping in his chest and his ears are still ringing from the team howling down the radio because George had bagged the McLaren at the last corner, after five laps of fighting, as Lando’s soft tyres fully gave up the ghosts of grip they’d been clinging onto and he thinks everyone at Williams is going to go _insane_. Maybe has already.

Second. It should be the biggest story of his career. And it nearly is.

George justifies it like this:

Max is spraying the Honda guy and so -

George grabs Lando, pulls his collar to pour champagne _straight_ down the back of his race suit and make him scream, flailing to retaliate.

And George _nearly_ slips over because Lando’s got that low-centre-of-gravity advantage and then his back is against the railings of the podium balcony and Silverstone is going fucking _nuts_ to have two home racers up there.

And Lando has to jump George, legs round his waist, to pour champagne over his head.

And then they are kissing, Lando’s arms looped over his shoulders and George hoping he doesn’t get concussed with the bottle.

It’s sticky and wet and acidic and George thinks about how the confetti makes it like a lovely, traditional English wedding. Max hoots and pours champagne over them both until Lando splutters, shaking his sodden hair like a wet dog and George takes advantage of him getting down for an enormous, satisfying, ice-cold slug out of his own magnum.

He still can’t hear properly, sparkling wine having joined the ringing in his ears but the crowd are cheering.

\-----

**Brentford, 2021**

It gets a bit easier after that, if anything. It feels good to get things off your chest, as it were - and George has plenty of experience with that, absentmindedly running his fingers over the thin, white scar he forgets is even there anymore unless he’s looking in the mirror.

Lando’s sprawled behind him in the reflection, on George’s bed, fiddling with his phone. George can sense they’re going to have another playing-but-not-really argument about whether Lando needs to move to Brentford or he needs to move to Guildford or they _both_ could, you know, be adults and buy somewhere to live _together_. The idea of looking at Zoopla later makes fluttery things happen in George’s guts. He thinks he wants to keep chickens.

They can put that off for a bit, though. Lando mewls, soft and happy, when George crawls over him on the bed and knocks his phone away, towards the pillows.

It’s comfortable and sweet and horny, kissing and groping each other without any sense of urgency. By the time they fumble for lube Lando’s melted into the sheets and is clinging to George’s shoulders, doesn’t need more than a couple of quick, wet strokes to be inside George.

Lando jacks him, between the oiled-up pads of his middle finger and thumb and George rides him mercilessly until Lando’s fucking _begging_ that he can’t hang on and he’s going to come. George takes pity, gets off him and then back on, position adjusted, so they can 69 each other over the edge because Lando physically _needs_ to be bossed around to get there.

Neither of them is in the championship battle this year. Not yet. But they’re in the mix and that’s good enough for now, both credible threats in the fights that separate the men from the boys and other such gladiatorial cliches.

Lando’s phone screen lights up, next to George’s face on the mattress, while they’re cuddling. He looks over to the lock screen photo, bright even under the lacework of cracks in the glass and showing them on the podium, Lando wrapped round him and their faces caught in the spray of champagne their mouths are too busy to bother with. Lando is dripping wet and blushing and the curve of George’s bicep is crooked round his waist, holding him up.

There’s a property alert in the way of where they’re kissing, unfortunately but the memory is clear enough.

“Where’s Tadley?” Lando grumbles about being forced to do things other than lie there getting his scalp rubbed, mumbling into George’s chest.

“Idunno. But it’s like - kind of halfway? And it’s got a pub, I checked the reviews and there’s loads of cycling places.” He gropes over George, for his phone and unlocks it, waves the ‘for sale’ advert in George’s face. “See - look, big garden and it’s all hidden. Loads of space for chickens.”

George laughs and it feels a bit hysteric, in a good way, if that’s the only thing he’s got left to hide.


	2. kissing eyes and kissing palms

**April, 2018**

Lando having a flatmate kind of immediately presents a subtlety problem because it turns out they have none. Nothing at all. Their combined vibes are so absolutely, pathetically that they’re going off to fuck that Sacha would need to be unconscious to not have blatantly spotted it.

George nearly asks about it, except that the idea they are in Lando’s flat with the express purpose of fucking is already so terrifying he feels sick. It’s not like he doesn’t _want_ to fuck or that he’s under any illusion Lando hasn’t kind of understood the situation it’s just that it’d be nice if it was fucking simple and he hates wishing he was _normal_ because positivity, yadda yadda yadda but it’s fucking _hard_.

He flops backwards onto Lando’s bed, bouncing against the mattress before he manages to get a frustrated sigh out.

"What?" Lando sounds as nervous as George feels, sitting down next to where he's sprawled. "C'mon, kiss me."

That's kind of safe at least. George tugs Lando onto his lap and pulls him down for some snogging. They haven't kissed _on a bed_ yet, the whole thing kind of new anyway - it's been like less than a week since they turned mutually pining over Alex into making out with each other.

Lando's small but surprisingly heavy where he's straddling George and it's nice feeling his thighs squeezing George's waist. He's not sure where he should put his hands, wanting to be, like, sexy about it but not a perv, settles for holding one of Lando's hands where they're on his shoulders and then feels like that's the lamest thing ever.

Kissing, at least, is nice. They've kind of learned how each other likes it, getting used to opening their mouths to make it warm, wet, airless between them and the way Lando makes little, soft noises if George sucks his bottom lip.

They're very different sizes, Lando a good five inches shorter than George and not exactly scrawny but very _sparse_ , like nothing's gone to waste on him. George hates how knobbly his own shoulders are and then there's the list of what he thinks of as "less relatable" issues.

"Mmm, I kind of," Lando plucks at George's jumper a bit, not looking at him. "Do you want to be on top?"

George forgets, in the furnace of his own insecurities, that Lando has them too. Which is stupid, what the hell's he got to worry about?

"Alright. Take this off, though," George pushes up Lando's hoodie, accidentally sliding his hands under his shirt too and getting a palmful of warm, smooth stomach that makes Lando hiss.

"Fuck, your hands are cold." It's not the sexiest thing in history.

George makes an effort, rubbing his hand up Lando's chest, "You feel nice though."

Lando blushes, once his head's out of the hoodie, hair sticking up in total disarray already and he squeezes George with his legs, before rolling off and lying down next to him. "This is hot - but I like when you, like-"

He can't manage to say it, tugging at George to roll on top of him so he's between Lando's thighs again but with the gravity reversed, pushing Lando into the bed and watching him moan when George leans his full weight on him for a second.

"You like me holding you down?" Lando nods, then shakes his head, which George can't help a confused noise about.

"Not, like, in a kinky way. I just. Really fancy you and like, I like the idea you fancy me too y'know?" Lando wriggles a bit underneath him, getting comfy and pushing his cock up against George's leg, "Can we get naked?"

Not really. Is what George wants to say but then he knew this was coming, that's why he'd told Lando in the first place because they're all of eighteen and twenty and they want to fuck.

"I'm." This is a bad start.

He sighs, rolls off Lando and pulls the Hilfiger over his head, tries to calm his hair down before going for his jeans. The buttons feel clumsy in his fingers and it's not like this is his first time but it's been awhile and this feels different.

There's fucking randoms he's met at parties, both drunk enough to barely notice so long as George bends over and lets them fuck his arse and someone he actually wants to have a long term thing with. Well, longer than an hour or so anyway. Lando's already managed four days, which is a personal best.

"Fuck, you're _so_ hot." Lando sounds horny as hell, breathy while George is finally, awkwardly, peeling the skinny denim down and trying not to fall off the bed or get it trapped round an ankle. "I've been, like, trying not to look? Like you know, I didn't want to freak you out cus it's cool you even hang out with me and then like, being creepy and gay at you would be weird but like. Fuck."

George can't help throwing him a shit-eating grin, taking in the pretty pleasant view of Lando in just his boxers and socks. "How many wanks have you had over me?"

Lando closes his eyes, "Fuck, like _millions_ , I'm not even joking. Like I think my hand thinks it's called George at this point. I fucking - I can't even believe we’re doing this, still."

He decides to make it more believable, crawling over to Lando to kiss him where he's sitting, cross legged and with a blush creeping all over his body. Lando's kind of hairless, only a very fine coating on his arms and legs and nearly see-through on his chest and it hides nothing, the pink flush of ‘turned-on and possibly panicked’ very visible against pale skin.

"You little perv," George punctuates the words with kisses, to take the sting out. "I always knew you couldn't be spending that long in the bathroom for any decent reason."

He pushes Lando back down on the bed, more like they were before but with George half-propped on his side so they can kiss without him crushing Lando. Lando looks really _good_ , like breathless and bright-eyed and he's restless, squirming against George like he's excited. "Fuck, I've like. I don't have a ton of."

George can't help laughing at him, although he's not trying to be cruel, "Words?"

Lando smacks his arm, the blush going from pink to red, "I've spent a lot of time with my hand, is what I meant."

"Didn't you fuck that girl in Macau?" This might not be the ideal time to bring it up but George has been wondering about it for ages and he's somehow kind of perturbed if Lando's into girls, it feels like a fetish thing.

Fortunately, it's met with eye-rolling, and a groan. "Fucking hell, _no._ God, she just said I did and I don't even know why, it's not like I even did well in the race and then McLaren started breathing down the back of my neck about _expecting good behaviour_ and I hadn't even done anything. I'm not even, like - I don't."

It's becoming clear Lando cannot even stutter out anything to do with his own sexuality, which is kind of cute. George kisses his neck, where there's a pulse point fluttering visibly with stress, "Ok, I'll be gentle."

Lando hums and George feels the vibration on his lips, "Mmm I know. I really - fuck, I just don't want to mess this up. And if you keep doing that I'm going to come, sorry."

George's hand is over Lando's dick, through his boxers and he'd just been kind of sizing it up, rubbing his fingers over the shape and feeling how big Lando is, how he twitches against George's touch. He gives him a squeeze, just because it's fun to play, " _Really?_ "

Lando whimpers, whispers _'yes'_ very fervently. "That's hot, Lando. I wanna make you come."

He wriggles, underneath George, whimpers again when George rubs a thumb firmly up his dick, presses the head. It's sexy as hell watching Lando fall apart and helplessly push his hips up at George not even taking his pants off, that desperate to be touched.

"Fuck, _please_ -" Lando's more high-pitched than ever, tucking his face against George's chest and mouthing at his t-shirt, "I'm sorry, you're just-" the way he interrupts himself with whining is going straight to George's crotch, "so fucking hot and I can't believe you're touching me and _mmmfgh_."

George's hand is wet, against the fabric and if Lando was blushing before, he's a tomato now, eyes screwed shut while George touches him a couple of last times, making him shudder with just fingertips through his boxers. It feels sexy as hell to have that power over Lando, to make him helplessly turned on like this.

George nuzzles at him for kisses because now he 's really turned on, too. He's too nervous to put Lando's hand in his pants but that's what he wants, feeling swollen and hot against his own underwear. Lando recovers fast, kissing back for a minute before shifting uncomfortably and pulling his boxers down, using a sock to wipe the spunk out of his pubes before unceremoniously dumping the whole lot over the side of the bed and for some reason apologising.

"Sorry, I was kind of hoping. To last longer." George laughs, kisses him again because Lando with a flush high on his cheeks and wet, deep red lips is fucking sexy and it's all for him.

At least now he's come Lando is more focused on George, his hands going to George's waist to slide between t-shirt and boxers, palming George's arse with a surprising amount of confidence. "Can you - I wanna see you."

He's tugging at George's t-shirt and it's almost naively innocent but makes him grimace, "I haven't had it - well, anything - done yet."

"Oh." Lando pauses for a minute, his hand reaching down in George's pants, below his arse and making him clench his thighs shut. "Like, I don't mind. I've never. I don't know."

George grunts at him, because that's fucking useless, says so. "That's not _massively_ helpful, Lando."

"Can I fuck you?" Lando's fingers are against the apex of his thighs, touch barely-there against sensitive, taut skin. "Not like, today but like. One day?"

"Yeah, like. I've done it before." It's mean, maybe, because it's not like he's got a lot of experience to hold over Lando but. It's true at least.

"Oh, right. Yeah." Lando’s hand moves up again, shaky against George's waist. "Sorry, I'm really bad at this."

"Just like, shut up and get me off. Do you know what you're doing?" George has to hide his face in the pillow because this is _unbearable_ but he's somehow still turned on.

"Ok. Yeah. Kind of," Lando laughs nervously, kisses George's chin. "Just like... Lie back?"

He kisses down George's neck, strokes his arms and pushes him back into the bed with firm hands, a reassuring amount of strength and George lets himself go. Tries not to hiss when Lando's fingers trail over his chest, run over the binder seam and rub gently against the pressed skin there, soothing, through his shirt.

If Lando's curious about it he doesn't push it, just trails his mouth over George's shirt, kisses at the dip under the collar and high on his arms, under the sleeves. "Fuck, yeah."

Lando's fingers have reached the top of his boxers, pulling at the grey band of elastic. "Is it OK?"

George can't face opening his eyes but nods, mumbles 'yeah' again even though he's not quite sure what Lando means. They're going to have to get over this at some point, might as well get on with it. Stiff upper lip and all that.

Lando's hands rub over his thighs, fingers teasing up the legs of George's underwear before he pulls, dragging it down and off - or close enough, still tangled round one of George's shins. If Lando's surprised he doesn't make a noise, just runs his fingertips through George's pubes and kisses his inner thigh, one hand there to nudge his legs apart.

George will, for the rest of his life, pretend he doesn't make a high-pitched little wailing noise because it feels so nice and Lando's so close to where's really good and he doesn't know if he's too nervous to actually want it.

It seems like what Lando lacks in stamina, he makes up for in willing boldness though, pushing his wet mouth up against George without hesitation and making him hiss, take his own turn at incongruous apology. " _Fuck_ , sorry."

Lando makes a dismissive noise and licks George into his mouth, sucking very gently. It's soft and wet and Lando's tongue is probing at nerve endings that make George spread his legs, make him want more. " _Ohhhh_ , fuck. That's really good."

Fingers find his hand, where it's gripping into the bedding and squeeze, reassuring. George has got himself off plenty of times like this, got his kind-of dick hard and rubbed lube-oiled fingers over it until he's come but Lando's mouth is something else.

The wetness is making it gentle, tongue easily sliding over George and he doesn't even mind when Lando dips lower, rubs it rougher through folds. When he's in Lando's mouth it's like his brain can't function, like his body can't process the amount of sensation and it's just on the brink of nearly-painful, almost too much but somehow not crossing the line.

It makes him lift his hips up, unconsciously, pushing himself into Lando's mouth and Lando makes a funny, hot noise like he likes it so George does it again. And again. Fucking himself against Lando's lips, letting him lick messily and spreading drool and cum over Lando's mouth and chin.

It's so hot George gets over himself enough to look down, opening one eye and seeing Lando looking angelic, eyes closed and cheeks wet, mouth open and pliant as George thrusts his hips up and that's what pushes him over the edge, sets his legs shaking. "Fuuuck."

Lando shuffles round, wiping his mouth on a pillow case and they're going to have to talk about _tissues_ or something, clearly. George cuddles him into his chest, both of them sweaty and too- warm, feeling a lot of _something_.

"I really liked that." Lando mumbles it into George's armpit, which is incredibly unromantic of him and tickles enough to make him giggle, feeling a bit fizzy and fucked-out.

"Yeah, same." George decides to test the waters, "You're fucking hot when you're sucking dick."

Lando wriggles up to look him in the face, blushing and smiling, "You're really hot when you're getting your dick sucked.”

Kissing again is nice, something makes George put his fingers in Lando’s mouth to make him suck them. “I really like you.”

Lando hums, licks over the pads of George’s fingertips and closes his eyes, settles down against George’s shirt. It’s sweaty and George feels kind of ridiculous half-dressed, like a reverse merman or something but Lando’s thigh is slung over his, some emotion-tugging combination of possessive and needy and it’s enough of a shield.

He tries not to let himself get _too_ sappy about it but George would be really ok with sex getting followed by cuddling from now on, not pulling his jeans up and wondering how to get home. It's even nicer when Lando introduces George as his boyfriend later, like Sacha's never met him before and they hold hands on the sofa to watch Prison Break.

Not being a guilty secret feels good.

\------

**November, 2020**

Once Lando is out, it sends everyone a bit weird. The press, obviously - George barely sees him for about a fortnight, shoved from interview to interview until Lando finally tells the team he’s had enough and says Piers Morgan can go fuck himself if he wants him on Good Morning Britain.

George is quietly proud of him, tries not to interfere or say anything dumb, retweets him with 'good on you dude' and the pride flag emoji.

" _Dude?_ " Lando sounds incredulous, even on speakerphone while he's driving or at least, giving George a running commentary on how bad the M25 is today. "Fucking hell, I'm at South Mimms - this is going to take _forever_ and you've _duded_ me on Twitter. You better make it up to me."

"You are a dude," George considers minor domestic arguments best faced with logic.

"Yeah but I'm not _your_ dude, am I? That's like what I'd say to fucking Carlos." Oh. George had wondered if Lando had really thought through only half of them coming out. But George has the double and he doesn't, can't, face the scrutiny on that yet. He's seen enough of what they've said about Lando.

"I'm sorry, I know it's shit. I love you, I really am proud of you. It makes it easier for me, you taking the hit for being first." George's body suddenly _aches_ to hold him, wants to find a way to take away the other tweets he knows Lando reads even though he shouldn't.

“I fucking hate it.” Lando’s voice wobbles a bit and George’s heart breaks, can’t stop the soft sound. “And I think Charles wants to fuck me.”

His voice _definitely_ cracks on that and George tries not to choke, “ What? ”

“He keeps texting me and it’s like. I don’t wanna be like - hey can you fuck off, I’m taken because then he’ll be like by who and I don’t want to push you into it but he’s like. Fuck, I’ll show you when I get there - after we fuck, god. It’d kill the mood otherwise.”

George has no idea what to say. “Charles _Leclerc?_ ”

Lando audibly huffs, “Who the fuck else? Anyway, I don’t want to think about it. What are you wearing?”

By the time Lando arrives they’re halfway through way too much phone sex given one of them is technically in charge of a vehicle and George completely forgets about the Leclerc thing in favour of shoving Lando onto the sofa, pulling his clothes off and riding him until they’re both a sweaty mess.

But it inevitably comes up again, George growling out annoyance every time he sees Lando’s WhatsApp light up until he sends Charles some select messages of his own telling him he can back the fuck off. Lando’s phone stops buzzing and they settle into Money Heist and chill, Lando claiming he can understand way more of the Spanish than he does.

Much later, George gets a reply.

_Oh._

_I see!_

_Well, maybe I could fuck you together, it’s even more fun! :)_

He’s not dignifying that with a response.

Charles gets forgotten for ages, until they’re dumb enough to come right out on the Silverstone podium. George keeps the part they don’t need to know but wears the rest with a bravery he wasn’t sure he would, kisses Lando in the paddock, gets the union jack replaced with a rainbow on his race suit for pride month, puts his arm round Lando and kisses his hair when he realises they’re being papped in the supermarket.

Lando is visibly happier, like having George to defend has given him a purpose he couldn’t find about himself, always braver than he is confident. By the time they move in together it feels comfortably certain, that all these things were somehow meant to be and the bad stuff was worth it.

Which is when the 2021 World Drivers’ Champion makes an unexpected return to George’s inbox, while he’s out feeding the chickens one morning and he can only conclude Charles is drunk in Vegas or something.

_Hey you never replied_

_That’s pretty rude no???_

_Anyway I think we should, Landos ‘ ass is too nnice you should share_

...followed then a photo of what can only be described as ‘most of Charles, naked.’ George has never been sent a dick pic by anyone other than Lando, feels his cheeks burn looking at the surprisingly well-lit detail of Charles’ thick, dark pubes and the way they fit the v of muscle at the top of his legs, the way Charles’ fingers are loosely hooked round his dick, pale skin flushed with blood and fully hard.

George decides to take Charles’ own advice and share with Lando, whose very nice arse is sprawled on the sofa watching Saturday Kitchen, eating cereal and taking advantage of his hoodie- borrowing privileges to swamp himself in one of George’s. “Charles has sent me a picture of his cock, do you want to see?”

Lando chokes on his cheerios - “ _What?_ ”

George passes his phone over once Lando’s removed the threat of dropping it into a bowl of milk to the coffee table. “I think he wants to have a threesome.”

Lando looks completely baffled, even as he’s very clearly zooming in on the picture. “Why would he - jesus, is he wearing nail varnish?”

“ _That’s_ what you took from that photo?” Lando looks up at him, shrugs.

“It’s a pretty average dick, I’m more interested where he found a toilet this well-lit. Are him and Daniel in Vegas again?” Everyone always underestimates Lando’s analytical ability but George really appreciates a technical breakdown.

“Why’s he getting his cock out around Daniel?” George takes his phone back because there’s a limit to the amount of in-depth analysis of another guy’s dick he’s willing to watch his boyfriend do.

“Mmm, makes you think.” Lando sticks his tongue out and George tries to tell himself that it’s probably only sexy because he’s had to think about dicks more than anyone should after getting out of bed and before lunch already. “So are we gonna fuck Charles Leclerc or what?”

George thinks about it for all of zero seconds, nearly says ‘ _absolutely fucking not_ ’ and then thinks about it some more, draws the same conclusion but somehow keeps thinking about it instead of saying it. “Do you want to?”

Lando wrinkles his nose, picking his cereal back up and chewing for a minute, pensive. "I mean. Not - maybe?"

George let's go of the insecurity he's clinging to, "He could fuck you."

The face Lando pulls is very reassuring, " _God_ , no. Not that. I'd rather watch you fuck _him_."

There's way too much of a pause between them for this to still be a stupid conversation. George tries to stop his breath hitching but the idea of Lando wanting to watch him is _hot_. "Really?"

Lando nods, holding George's gaze with more smoulder than anyone with a spoonful of multigrain hoops just below their eyes should have any right to. "Yeah, you know. I like when you're bossy."

"Hmmh." George doesn't reach for his phone just then, decides not to make decisions while he's horny. Especially because he'd much rather wait for Lando to stop slurping out of his bowl and get down to some very grown-up, coupley fucking on the sofa than sit there texting Charles fucking Leclerc.

He does that later. After an orgasm, a twenty mile bike ride that only accidentally takes him past the place that does sourdough croissants and then coming again because Lando was lying in wait at the door and George's sweaty cycling gear does something weird for him.

_How's the hangover? Alright sure, Lando says he's down._

_We're in Ibiza in two weeks if you're up for it._

It is delicious waiting for the sheepish reply.

Nevermind that they're in Ibiza because Carlos is getting boring straight-married and George refuses to let Lando go on a stag do without supervision. It's not the risk he'll get turned by a reasonably high-class stripper's tits, George just would actually not be able to go on living and have to murder Carlos or something if someone shaved his eyebrows off.

Also it's winter break and he really _does_ intend to spend the entire time fucking whenever humanly possible because Carlos can keep the dumb honeymoon but something about the fact they own a joint flock of heritage bantams gets George _extremely_ hard. Anyway, Carlos is the runner-up and this is a perfect excuse to fuck the champion.

Lando looks up from where he's lying across, somehow, three quarters of the huge bed, sprawling in just lurid shorts and checkered socks with a white chocolate Magnum in his mouth like some kind of extremely unaesthetic, gay romcom poster. He takes the ice cream out of his mouth, licking white droplets off his lips, to say "I can't believe you've booty called Charles Leclerc."

George fiddles with the collar of his t-shirt, perched on the remaining 25% of bed and not trying to drip chocolate on it, "You started it."

Lando shrugs, returns to deep-throating his ice cream, "You're the one he sent his dick to. I reckon he's gagging to get absolutely railed by you."

The unspoken thing, that remains unspoken between them, is that George is pretty sure Charles still thinks he's been invited to fuck Lando. A little no homo with the smallest queer in the grid, it's not gay if it's just fucking Lando.

It's a switch with much higher stakes than Charles could possibly be anticipating from the Uber he's apparently in on the way there. The harness, complete with pleasingly-sized but not immodest black, silicone dildo is lying ready on the night stand and despite Lando's best attempts to convince him they'd got time for just a quick shag, clean and proper.

"What if he goes weird about it?" George can't stop himself vocalising it, after thinking it on loop for the past few hours, if not days and weeks.

"Then he's a fucking idiot. Getting fucked by you is a privilege, he should be grateful I'm letting it happen when I could be getting that all to myself." Lando finishes the Magnum, sucking on the paddle-stick for the last bits, "It's just cus he's pretty when he like, tries to handle things he clearly can't."

George doesn't get a chance to find out what the hell Lando means by that because Charles texts him that he's here and George has to pad downstairs, let him in through the villa's security system and wait for Charles to discard sunglasses, espadrilles and for some reason an umbrella in the hallway before he leads him upstairs.

The bedroom feels oddly quiet when George opens the door, like Lando's left or something but he's very much there, very much still sprawled on the bed. This Lando does not look much like the one George left there a few minutes ago, however.

He's naked, lying face-down with one leg bent up as though he'd had it flung over George mere moments ago. There are red marks on his hips, from some rough fucking Lando had goaded him into last night and now George sees why.

Lando looks the picture of fucked-out and tousled, curls falling messily over where his face is pillowed on one forearm, the other outstretched like he's looking for George, eyes closed in an arch performance of blissful, fully shagged sleep.

"Nice." Charles doesn't even glance at the dresser as he moves over to the bed, runs fingers up the back of Lando's bent-up thigh like he's sizing him up, "You are a lucky man, George."

He really, really is. George sits down on the bed, watching Lando curl and uncurl his outstretched hand against the duvet, a perfect pantomime of being post-coital, exhausted, sleepy. George runs a hand through his hair, gently grabbing it at the back of his neck, "Lando, baby, Charles is here."

It's a slow unfurling, Lando moving into George's touch and then grumbling like he doesn't want to be woken up, reaching for George and he wonders when and how the little fucker learned to act. How many times he himself has been seduced by this kind of shy routine when he's caught Lando just casually lying across a sunbeam, looking like pornography or sprawled in the garden wearing George's clothes or something.

Charles runs a hand up Lando's side, kisses his shoulder as he sits down the other side and George feels possession run through him like a hot knife. Lando is _his_ and he doesn't want Charles to touch him, even if that's hypocritical given George is very much planning to touch Charles.

"Whuh?" In rolling over, Lando nearly shoves Charles off the bed and it's so clumsily deliberate George nearly laughs. "Oh - shit. Sorry I'm, y'know, _naked_."

George tries not to think about the kind of devious thought process that led Lando to, at some point between him leaving the room and coming back with Charles, get naked and lube up his own soft dick so it looks like he's just cum, wet at the head and a little smeared across his thigh.

It's insanely sexy, vulnerable, intimate - all constructed but accurate, a portrait of Lando as George gets to have him, from the blush across his cheekbones at getting seen naked to the crinkled duvet- lines pressed into the warm skin of his chest.

"No need for apologies," Charles' hand drifts up Lando's thigh, fingertips close to the artfully painted wet patch and Lando shifts under them.

It's pretty, beautiful even - Charles is half-smiling, greedily looking down at the feast of debauchery between them on the bed and his fingers are such pale alabaster against even Lando's barely-tanned skin. Lando's act is all sleep-warmth, with a burlesque-style seeming to show everything while keeping it all hidden. Charles' desire is more nude than Lando's body, thinking it'll be easier to take than an on-track position.

George grins.

Lando touches Charles back, fingers mirroring on his thigh, through heavy, white linen. George actually sees the moment Lando pulls his move, arching his back a little to stretch, legs shifting against the bedding and then closing his eyes for a quiet, achey groan. "Nngh, sorry. Couldn't wait and now _everything's_ sore."

There's a tone to apologies and that wasn't one, at all. Lando sounds like the most satisfied man alive, his hand that isn't on Charles' leg tangling with George's fingers before he opens his eyes and smiles very brightly, looking up at them both, as though he's just now having this idea. "Oh, you should fuck Charles. It's _so_ great ."

Charles snickers out a laugh, then bites it back, half escaped from his mouth, when George says "I could be into that," raking his eyes over Charles.

The champion blushes, fights it, says "Oh" and then "Sure, why not? It could be fun."

Lando grins, victorious and moves to prop himself against the pillows, one knee crooked up so his legs are spread just enough to distract George for a few seconds, to make sure Lando knows George is _his_ just as much as the reverse.

He is, completely, wholly. This is absolutely not the time for a proposal but for the first time, it crosses George's mind because if he had a car this beautiful and dangerous he'd sure as hell want a long term contract.

The space between George and Charles on the bed feels bigger than the span of Lando's knees. He refuses to look at the draw distance by pulling his shirt over his head, instead and nodding at Charles to do the same.

Lando cackles because everything is going according to his plan, clearly and also probably because there are two hot, shirtless boys in front of him and he gets to watch without having to worry about himself. If George wasn't so hopelessly gone on him he'd spank the calculating little git.

George reaches out a hand for Charles and they kneel-walk, clumsy, across the few feet of bed to meet each other. Charles is grinning something feral and it looks like he's hiding nerves, which really. What does he have to worry about?

The insecurities about sex are long gone, George knows he can make Lando see stars and the way they fuck is _so_ good. He's comfortable naked, now, confident about the decisions he's made and no longer feeling like an unfinished piece. George's body is something he actually _likes_ now, not just for arms and shoulders big enough to curl round Lando, legs long enough to always outrun him but the rest of it is what he chose.

Not everyone gets to pick, after all. Charles clearly didn't choose being a few inches shorter than he is, although the consumptive, vampire pallor has always seemed more like an aesthetic.

George kisses him, softly. He liked the way Charles reacted to Lando earlier, to the subtle hold gentleness seemed to have on him and George has always preferred being kind to cruel. He's really hoping Charles does, too.

Kissing Charles isn't like kissing like Lando, with the expansive range of years of familiarity. Their kisses are in short focus, brief touches and guided by hands having to find each other's shapes, George's fingers wrapping over Charles' hip bone.

A touch of lips to his jaw is tentative, mapping, not sure enough of the way for either of them to really have their eyes closed. George's half-open to look at Lando, where he's smugly sprawling and watching like he's recording proceedings, like it's burning onto his brain.

"I think he likes to look, no?" Charles presses a kiss to the side of George's mouth as he hums agreement, "We should give him a show, perhaps."

George has always been pretty no-nonsense, the opposite in many ways of Charles, who he's starting to think might just be layers and layers of nothing but. So he grabs Charles' hips, presses their crotches together and says, "There's something you should probably know," nodding over at the dressing table.

Charles' wrongfooted confusion, completely unable to take in concepts so basic George had to deal with them before he knew what the words even were, is more satisfying than he could have possibly expected. There's no horror, no shock, just a visible recalculation and Charles doesn't recoil or push him away, like he'd been braced for.

"Huh." Charles' gaze slides to Lando, who's glaring at him with a challenge George wouldn't offer anyone. They've always been better at getting into fights over each other than themselves. "Ok. That is new for me."

" _Could be fun,_ " George echoes, turning Charles' face back to him and waiting for the agreement.

He feels Charles' dick twitch, through layers of fabric and it rubs against George enough he has to bite his lip.

"Life is all about new experiences, I say we have this one." Charles says it like he's still rationalising, then more certain by the end of the sentence, "If it's good, it's good."

"It's _so fucking good_." Lando’s tone is more aggressive than he'd normally be, a little threat somewhere that Charles better appreciate them being willing to share.

"Well come on then," Charles' tone is light, kissing George softly again, "fuck me."

Despite some reservations about what the fuck he's doing with his life, George doesn't need telling twice. He pushes at the waist of Charles' trousers, undoing his belt and dips his head to kiss at Charles' shoulder, drag his teeth gently up Charles' neck and feel him shiver as George shoves his clothes down. "Oh my god, you are bossy."

George laughs because yes, he is and he's happy to accept that about himself as he wrestles Charles down onto the bed, pulls the rest of his clothes off before pinning him down for more kisses with Charles' dick trapped between them. If George was expecting it to be one-sided, though, he'd be underestimating the kind of outrageousness that gets someone a trophy in scarlet and Charles' hands are in his own pants as soon as their lips touch again.

George lets him touch, work out whatever curiosity he has before they're any further into this. He's wet, something about the nerves turning George on in a way he doesn't really want to think about and Charles' fingers are a clumsy groping compared to the way Lando knows how to touch him but friction is friction and his dick swells against the touch.

They groan into each others mouths, at the same time as Lando makes a wanting noise and George leans back to tug his sweatpants off, get the show started. Charles offers him a tube of some sort of organic, designer lube from some pocket or other and George politely declines while he's reaching for the harness. He doesn't know how it reacts with silicone and Durex Perfect Glide has always worked fine with him and Lando.

"You've been fucked before, right?" He almost says it as a tease, a challenge because George needs a few seconds to sort out the harness and it's easier if he can occupy Charles with pseudo-heterosexual squirming while he's closing the buckles.

"Mmm, you know I have. Just because I don't kiss him on the podium doesn't mean I don't fuck." There's a confession in there that's more interesting than George wants to really get into, assuming Charles was more the 'getting into threesomes like this and saying it's just for fun' kind of closeted not the 'secret relationship' kind. But OK, fine, he doesn't need to totally baby this, tightening the last strap.

Charles spreads his legs when George pushes at his thighs and gives him a couple of licks up his dick to calm him down, lets Charles put a hand in his hair if it helps him relax.

" _Ohhhhhhh,_ " it's drawn-out, almost musical, the noise that comes out of Charles when George's fingers breach him. He sounds almost like Lando, the same open enjoyment of it, but with more wonder, like he doesn't expect how nice it feels, still.

George sucks the tip of Charles' cock into his mouth, working in a third finger and letting him bear down, taking it. Charles' fingers tug on his hair and he vocalises such lovely sounds, all shock and shiver and breathy richness, Monagasque luxury to the last, chin tipped back so George can't see the way he's pouting round air as he huffs it out.

"That's hot," Lando commentates and George's eyes flick over Charles' stomach to look at him, legs still flopped open and one palm pushed against his own dick. George hums, partly to see what it does to Charles and by the time he's fucking himself on George's fingers, it'd be a good competition as to which of them is wetter.

"You ready?" George is really into dirty talk, with Lando but this seems so much simpler, more straight forward somehow, like Charles is a beginner he needs to keep things basic for.

Charles lifts his head, opens his eyes and mumbles " _Fuck_ yes, I'm so ready for you" like he's seconds away from coming. So George slicks up the dildo, enjoying the press of it back against his dick and then fucks himself into Charles, legs pushed back over George's shoulders.

The small, stuffed noise Charles makes is like a bolt to George's crotch. He's fucking Charles Leclerc and the dude's whimpering underneath him like he's overwhelmed.

"Oh fuck, I knew this would look great." Lando's fully got his dick in his hand now, working it, "Fuck him, George, he's so into it."

"Oh my god-" George doesn't know if Charles is reacting to Lando or the movement, trying to hit his prostate on the first, shallow thrust but either way, it's incredible. Leclerc's spine arches to fuck himself deeper and his fingers grip George's wrist, where he's braced himself on his shoulder to watch pale skin turn pink under the pressure.

Charles' cock is smearing pre-cum on George's abs and every thrust rocks the force going into Charles' body back against George, rubs his dick wetly against the flat end of the silicone and sends him moaning into Charles' neck. "Oh, oh fuck - please, George, I am - I need ."

George shushes him, "You'll get it." He moves Charles' legs off his shoulders, wraps them round his waist so they can fuck deeper and puts his hands on Charles' hips to get a proper angle. It's firm and fast and the noises out of Charles become one long, keening ' _ohhh_ ' that doesn't stop except to wobble, breathless, on every hard thrust.

"Can you come," George pants it out, taking a shallower thrust to rub himself off and close his eyes on the sensation, "just like this, no touching?"

"Oh my _god_ ," Charles sobs it, reaching for George, "yes, please - _please_ just fuck me."

Something animal lights up in George. He doesn't get like this about Lando, all his thoughts too occupied on how he wants to take care of him, blinded by love as much as fucking but just this time, watching Charles beg, George wants to do nothing but give him so much of what he's asking for he snaps.

"Fuck, oh-" Charles is clearly a talker, even stuttering while George is gripping his thighs to pull them further apart and pounding him, flesh wet and red where the dildo's disappearing into him again and again. 'Fuck, I need, I - j'ai - oh my god, _my god_."

George slows down, not totally merciless, while Charles comes all up his own stomach, untouched. His dick twitches, dribbling when George thrusts lightly and Charles moans like he's history's greatest whore.

He gives him a minute to shiver through it, legs flopped open and skin even paler than usual before gently pulling out.

Lando's there as soon as he moves, unclipping the harness, desperate to get to George and his kisses are as frantic as his hands. They jack each other, sloppy and with only experience giving them any technique at all because Lando knows George likes a finger each side, squeezing and George knows he likes it hard and fast and firm on the head.

The orgasm makes his legs shake, when it comes, unable to hold back when he feels Lando's spunk hit his palm and its euphoric, filthy, _so_ lovely.

They lie together afterwards, George surprised to discover Charles is a cuddler. Lando curls up under one of his arms, leg over George's thighs as usual and Charles does the same the other side, hand on George's chest.

His fingers run over the scar line, finding it somehow even though George himself forgets it's even there. "Do... I guess that, people do not know?"

George snorts, "Not really important, is it, if you're not going to fuck me? Don't see why they should care enough to get told."

Charles nods, "Mmm, that makes sense. You have each other, anyway."

"That was the important one, so George can kiss me in big Tesco and wind up Sun reporters," Lando yawns, "don't see why anyone needs to know how big my dick is though, y'know. You can live authen-authent- really without it being like. Spanish inquisition time."

George strokes a hand down his back, feeling ridiculously loved. "Yeah. You're the brave one on that, anyway."

Lando snuffles like he's hiding choking up against George's chest and Charles makes a pensive, almost melancholy sound, "Yeah, you know. Not everyone would do what you guys did."

George's heart aches a little bit for him, just this once and they end up drinking wine together on the roof, Lando wrapped in a blanket with his head in George's lap and Charles across the table, watching them with a longing that isn't about George or Lando.

Choices. George is still very happy with his, fingers twisting one of Lando's curls round his knuckle, like a ring.

\-----

**December, 2022**

Only one of them can win the championship and Lando's younger, so George reasons that it's fair he gets first go. Also Lando hates press stuff so it'd only be a burden to be the first _gay_ Formula One World Driver's Champion and George feels like he should do more of the heavy lifting in that respect, really.

Claire kisses his cheek and cries on the podium with him in Brazil and George briefly thinks slightly insane and adrenaline-induced things about Senna and full circles and being part of heritage and legacy. Lando kisses his mouth the second he's off the podium, despite the PRs desperately trying to get him to unhook his legs from George's waist and stop them both sobbing on each other instead of taking proper press shots.

It's the snogging ones they use, on every front page. So they might as well have both won, in the end.

Lando's still only 23 and George worries about it, about whether they should have tried dating other people at some point in their lives but they've added a couple of pygmy goats that remind him irresistibly of Lando to the bantams and if they keep affirming it with animals they're going to end up with a zoo. So he gets down on one knee, one night and asks.

Lando goes quiet, eyes wide and digs a hand into his own pocket. For a second, George thinks he's going to Instagram it and he's going to have to veto but instead Lando gets out a box, a white-gold band with a single blue stone in it and says "It's cus it's the colour of your eyes."

George isn't much of a crier, tends to leave that to Lando but there's only so much a man can take and somehow, even after all this time, he'd still thought he might have to _convince_ him. Not that Lando would have been thinking about it, hoping for it, too.

Lando sucks him off on the couch cushions where they throw them at the floor of the lounge and it feels as good as the first time. George is less hesitant to fuck his mouth now, likes making Lando look up, wide-eyed and blissful when he tugs his hair.

It's wet and sexy and George's dick throbs every time Lando's tongue runs up it, every time he hollows his cheeks to suck. His eyelashes are jewelled with tears and the grey-blue-green storm of his eyes is unclouded, honest in his devotion.

George pulls him up, hooks his legs round Lando's waist and gives him what he'd asked for a long time ago, Lando's dick sliding into him with their usual way round all inverted and it makes them both moan.

Lando's too short to reach George's mouth like this, has to kiss his chest instead as he thrusts, a little clumsy at first because somehow they've never done this before. Lando pants against his skin, his tongue going out to swipe wet and pink over George's nipple and he braces himself on one arm by George's waist, gets a better angle to go deep and slow and loving until George feels like he's losing his mind. He reaches a hand between them to touch himself only to have it knocked away by Lando's.

"I wanna get you off," is all he says but it's with feeling.

George let's go of it, closing his eyes and giving Lando control and it feels so good, someone knowing exactly how to work him up and half-out of his own skin. Lando's hard inside him and teasing on his dick and it only takes a couple of minutes for George to be shuddering, clenching down on him, crying out because Lando keeps rubbing out the after shocks even while he's biting George's shoulder and coming himself.

"I still really like you," he offers, while they're panting on each other and George is thinking they probably need to look up local upholstery cleaners.

Lando just snuffles against him and presses his fingers to the ring on George's hand, tightens his leg over George's thighs. They've got there in their own way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot emphasise enough how much, if you have to nuke your account, you should keep things in a non-pdf format if you ever want to put them back because jesus fucking christ on a formatting tricycle it is gruelling.
> 
> anyway, Genders Georg III, coming soon 
> 
> x


	3. never be afraid again

**London, December 2023**

George feels  _ intensely  _ paranoid, right now. Lando’s been looking up at him every few minutes, from staring out the window and restlessly squirming in the weird, scooped-out armchair this green room uncomfortably offers.

They’ve never really done, like  _ pride  _ stuff. Being them always seemed kind of awareness enough but now they’re  _ both  _ champions and somehow that’s dragged everything up and OK! and HELLO are bidding for the wedding photos neither of them want to sell and Charles is gunning for another threesome and George has to stop pinching the skin at the bridge of his nose before he gets a thigh bruise from Lando smacking him every time he does it. 

“C’mere,” Lando shuffles their chairs closer together, “I love you.” George closes his eyes because he knows Lando knows what he’s really worrying about, which is being found out as  _ more than gay.  _ “I’ve loved you since we were teenagers and I’m pretty sure you like me too.”

There’s a lot implied in there - since before George worked himself out to his final form, since before  _ Lando  _ did, either, still pretty and boyish under the hair and make up department-styled curls hanging over his forehead. George can’t help reaching out to cup his much-sharper cheekbone, thinking about how he still looks kind of angelic but the sort that has a sword, now.

Lando kind of has a beard these days, at least a small amount of scruffy stubble sometimes that sort of passes by his standards, rough under George’s fingers and it gets George unreasonably hot because it’s kind of  _ manly  _ or whatever. And he gets to fuck Lando, still make him squirm and pant and want George to dominate him with whichever dick they’ve picked that night up his arse, so George feels extremely validated in his own masculinity.

They get asked to do semi-naked photoshoots, a lot. George knows it’s kind of his fault - excitement from when the scars on his chest faded enough to take his top off leading to a  _ lot  _ of thirsty instagram pictures but well, if Lando will take them who’s he not to post them?

He’s thought about it, the idea of photos of Lando tucked against him, both shirtless but - god, right, he has to stop this train of thought before they go on the fucking  _ One Show,  _ jesus. 

“I love you too. Please say something non-horny.” Lando opens his eyes, from where he’d been leaning into George’s palm and smirks at him. 

“No way,” Lando’s giggling, “are you actually getting hot for me in the fucking BBC green room?”

George shrugs, “I bet loads of people have fucked in here.”

Lando wrinkles his nose, looks around, then seems to try and peel himself off as much of the chair as possible, “Jesus. Yeah, probably - gross. Ok yeah, I dunno, just think about… people from Eastenders or something, whatever. Who’s the guy you like from Springwatch? Actually, maybe not him, that might not help.”

“Not - I don’t -” George feels the blush rise, “I don’t  _ like  _ Chris Packham, what is wrong with you?”

He swipes at Lando, grabs him for some tussling, the way they’ve always played even though they’re probably way too old for it now. By the time they’re called through, they’ve knocked their radio mics off and they’re both a bit mussed up and glowing, can’t help staring at each other like lovestruck morons and George has stopped worrying about himself, completely distracted by being cheerily interviewed by Alex Jones as though he's there to promote a children's novel.

“Obviously, it’s - there are places we race where technically, it’s illegal and that’s kinda hard. Because it’s just a visit, it’s just work and whatever and we don’t really see each other that much at races, even but I don’t - we don’t - want to say if it’s ok for us to visit because we’re, uhm, you know…” Lando seems to trail off slightly, choking on the idea of calling them famous or important or whatever.

“Because of who we are, when it should be ok for everyone.” George pats Lando’s hand, where he’s blushing about having to be conversationally rescued because this is a longstanding routine.

“Right, so that must be quite tricky for you,” Alex nods, her hair drifting violently with the vigour, “So what are you proposing for changes? Different visas, or?”

George takes a deep breath - too deep because Lando gets the drop on him, somehow, rushing it out, “We’ve set up - we’re getting married -” Lando touches George finger, on the ring, “- and we don’t need anything, so we’ve put our own money into this and we’re going to ask other people, if they want to, to give to it, to pay the legal costs for anyone who’s in trouble because of who they are, where we go.”

It’s - he shouldn’t really be surprised by this, Lando’s grown into quite an impressive adult, leading McLaren despite his decade-older teammate but still, George knows him - shockingly coherent, pitched right for the show. George shuts his own mouth, nudges Lando’s sneakered foot with his own boot and lets him carry on explaining how they’re working with Amnesty and how it’s agreed with F1 and sponsors and teams.

“Well that’s just lovely,” says Alex, cheerily and George resists the urge to roll his eyes because jesus  _ christ,  _ no it’s not - lovely would be never having to think about any of this shit, wouldn’t it? But she carries on regardless, “Good luck with your married life and I hope we get to see your wedding photos soon, I’m sure you’ll both be very handsome boys on the big day.”

George kicks Lando in the foot because he can  _ see  _ him about to say something that’ll get them both in trouble and this whole thing has been  _ quite  _ enough controversy for the day. He needs a cup of tea, a nice, sensible dinner and to make out under the covers until Lando’s carefully styled hair’s standing totally on end, the way George likes it best.

\-----

**Bahrain International Circuit, May 2024**

George feels a little like he’s going to be sick and not for any of the reasons he thought he would, this weekend. This is more like the sick feeling of being very excited and not sure what he ought to do and he sort of wants to speak to Lando about it and sort of doesn’t want to be that pathetically dependent.

But speaking about it to Alex, resentfully thrown back into a sim role for the  _ second  _ time, this year, seems pretty tasteless. So he trails round to the McLaren motorhome and tries not to be too obviously loitering because he’s  _ allowed  _ to look for his fiancee, right? And any journalists asking why don’t need to know. 

Lewis scoots up to him to break the illusion, claps a hand on George’s shoulder. “Accept it, man. Claire will take you back in a few years if you want.”

George bites his lip. It’s a bit of a mad move, from a team he’s won a championship with to the second-placed one, the last two years running. On the other hand, anyone who thought Mercedes’ dominance might have been broken would have been disabused by the first two races this year, where both he and Lando have had their arses firmly handed to them by both cars.

It’s just - maybe - that he thought it’d be Lewis he was alongside, not replacing. “I know - I just. I didn’t think - are you sure you’re leaving?”

Lewis flips his sunglasses down, nods, “Yeah, man. When I look at you guys - I still enjoy it, you know but I don’t feel like I have anything left to prove and you’re… I want to see what you do, I want you to have the chance.”

The idea that Lewis isn’t just leaving but leaving  _ for him  _ temporarily blindsides George. “What?”

“Look, I guess… I mean, it was always gonna be a choice, it’s something I’ve thought about every year for years and this time I just. One day, you’re gonna have the opportunity to hand it off to - I hope - a woman or a trans person or -” George stutters, chokes, doesn’t know what to do and barely hears the rest of what Lewis says. “I dunno, I think I’d still want to beat Seb or whoever but I kinda. I’m happy for you to be uplifted that way, to see where you take it.”

Lewis can clearly see he’s malfunctioning but probably not what about, barks that surprisingly crude laugh he has, “Anyway, I’m friggin’ - I’m gonna enjoy the rest of this one but heck, I am ready to, uhm, settle down or whatever. I don’t wanna be one of those guys that overstays his welcome, looking for something that isn’t gonna be here” - Lewis’ eyes unmistakably flick towards the Renault garage - “when I’ve got so much other shit I want -  _ need -  _ to do, y’know.”

George can feel himself unconsciously touching the ring - and Lewis’ eyes drawn to it - and he can’t trust himself to say anything at all, brain emptying itself completely in self-defense. Fortunately, Lando chooses this moment to appear, knocking the back of his hand against George’s (they’re not  _ taking the piss _ , here) and grinning at Lewis, “Hey, fucking incredible lap.”

“Tell your man to take the Mercedes seat,” Lewis claps Lando on the shoulder while he looks up, shocked, at George. “Then push Valtteri down the stairs and take the other one.”

Lando’s quiet for so long Lewis clearly thinks it’s something he’s said - which it is but not, “I’m joking about the Valtteri thing, you don’t need to do that.”

“George - yeah. You should.” Lando looks  _ intensely  _ solemn and it nearly makes George giggle. “I’m serious, you were  _ so  _ hot in that suit.”

Lewis dissolves into genuine, honest laughter so hard he has to fully dismount his scooter, “Jeez, Lando - priorities.”

“Yeah,” Lando’s laughing at his own joke, eyes crinkled when he reaches up to brush George’s face, quickly, prompting Lewis to ‘ _ awww’  _ them in a way that makes George blush. “Always you.”

\-----

**Barcelona, June 2024**

George is watching them in the dark glass of the wall-to-ceiling hotel window. The city lights look distant, from near-penthouse height ( _ two  _ champions - sue them) and they’ve only switched on the softest, lowest reading lights in the room, highlighting them in a bronze glow.

Lando is tucked against his chest, curls falling across George’s collarbone with one arm slung round George’s waist and the other over his shoulder. He’s floppy-tired, bruised from a shunt with Max, of all people that had left them both jumbled and furious and in the stewards for hours and George is pretty sure Lando’s angrier at himself than anything else, still prickling with frustration in the way he shifts, miserably, against George’s body.

“Hey,” He’s careful, stroking down Lando’s back, knows he’s sore. The movement, in the window, looks elegant and George can’t help admiring his own arm, the curves of muscle highlighted to seem like he’s shielding Lando, protecting him. It’s not like neither of them has crashed before but it’s so rare for either of them, not reckless drivers, that it always comes as a shock.

“I don’t think I can, like -  _ do  _ anything but I really  _ want _ ,” George knows what he means, all the weird fear and adrenaline and the moment when the car stops and you have to work out what’s going on and if you’re still alive provokes a particular kind of need. Not that Lando’s usually short of it, anyway, which he’s eternally grateful for. 

“Ok, c’mon, on the bed.” Lando’s easy to move, exhausted and restless though he might be. George gets him laid out on the pillows, one thigh crooked and the other stretched out long and if he might be checking how it looks in the window then Lando’s got his eyes closed and is about to get his dick sucked, so doesn’t need to know. 

He watches the way Lando’s chest heaves, fingers grip into the sheets. The way his ankle flexes, toes curl when George sucks him hard, on the tip and the way his breathing turns ragged when George adds a hand at his balls, gently playing. 

It’s hot enough that he has to slip his other hand between his own legs, fucking a finger into himself at the same pace he sucks Lando’s dick, watching his own body, bent over Lando’s and the way playing a knuckle over his dick makes the muscles in his shoulders flex, how sucking harder on Lando makes them both arch in mutual pleasure as he pushes deeper, to the good spots.

“Fuck - oh, fuck  _ me, _ ” Lando’s not normally that vocal - at least, not in any coherent language - and George looks up at him in the reflection, meets Lando’s eyes where he’s watching them both, too. Where he’s looking at George with lust-clouded, orgasm-burning eyes and George has to close his, suck him down as hard as he can and fuck himself until they both come because it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

He pants against Lando’s hipbone and Lando takes shaky, wet breaths further up the bed and George has to lie down before he falls over, limbs feeling like stone. “Fuck.”

“Mmm,” agrees Lando. “Come here ‘nn spoon me before I go into a coma. Y’my next of kin.”

\-----

**Tadley, August 2024**

Getting married, it turns out, involves a lot of decisions George never thought he’d be having to pretend to have a strong opinion about. Like what centrepieces to have, which is a word he just had to google. “Surely just like… People have flowers, right?”

He’s aware he sounds small and slightly pathetic about it but this is at least the fifth bizarre decision they’ve had to pretend to care about, sitting surrounded by catalogues and samples and other shite people keep sending them under the misapprehension this is going to be in a celebrity magazine and frankly, he loves Lando a lot but he’s on the brink of calling the whole thing off as ridiculous.

Fortunately, Lando seems to both be able to get his head round paying attention to this crap and understand that it’s not George’s thing. “Right, well - fuck, I’m just going to separate these into shit we’re meant to be doing some dumb photoshoot for and other stuff and then I’ll throw the first stuff out the door and actually fucking think about it.” He runs his hand through his fringe for the fifth time in the last three minutes, turning it almost into a mohawk, a little sweaty in the un-airconditioned British summer. 

George holds himself back, lurking on the sofa, exactly as long as it takes Lando to separate the things and shove a load into a recycling box, kick it out the open back door onto the porch. He tramps back inside to the vocal disgruntlement of Alex The Cat, their grumpy Turkish former stray that Lando had pleaded, big eyed, with him to bring home a month ago and who, of course, only loves George by way of gratitude.

“Oh, shut up Alex,” Lando scritches the yowling moggy’s back, as he’s being shouted at. “We’re not making  _ you  _ get married.”

George snickers and opens his arms, on the sofa, to let Lando flop into them. “We could have him as a bridesmaid or whatever.”

“Doesn’t that like, need a bride?” Lando looks thoughtful, from where he’s sprawled backwards on George, cradled between his legs. “Whatever, ok, I’m not thinking about all this until it’s like, ten degrees cooler - minimum.”

They lie there, Alex periodically coming over to flick his tail against George’s ankle, sweat building between their bodies and George gratefully stroking Lando’s scalp through his hair. And maybe making it stand on end a bit more because he likes it, something punky and defiant that fits Lando about it. 

“George?” Lando reaches a hand up, touches his fingers gently against George’s clavicle, “Do you ever think about how we’re really, really fucking lucky?”

George nearly takes the piss out of him but actually he does, a lot. It wasn’t that he’d totally believed he’d never find  _ anyone  _ but finding someone he loves so much, who’s always been so comfortable with him even when he wasn’t with himself? Years ago, he wouldn’t have even dared to hope about it. 

He tightens his arms round Lando, even though it’s too warm for this shit really, “Yeah, I really do.”

They’re silent for a bit, again, Lando tracing patterns on George’s neck before he suddenly shifts round, kneeling up to kiss George softly, tenderly, with all the awestruck wonder but none of the crisp-breath of that first time, in an F2 sideroom. George finds himself grabbing him by the collar, pulling Lando onto him until he can grab him against him, pick him up and dodge Alex winding between his feet until he gets to the bedroom and manages to shut the cat, noisily protesting, outside the door. 

It’s cooler in the bedroom, curtains closed from the heat and they roll over and under each other, slowly stripping off clothes while they’re kissing until they’re naked and tangled up, limbs entwined. Lando’s tongue is still in George’s mouth when George’s hands find his arse and make him gasp, tracing fingers up his crack and feeling Lando melt with want against him.

It’s practiced, reaching for the lube and harness - a fancier one, custom-made and just for home with a dildo Lando particularly likes already slotted in. 

“Jesus, you are so hot in that,” mumbles Lando, impatiently grabbing at the lube to sort himself out while George is adjusting, “I fucking love all your dicks.”

George tries not to laugh at him because he knows Lando gets impossibly horny about this, about  _ him  _ and actually it’s the hottest thing ever but he does look  _ pornographically  _ wanton, two fingers up his own arse and gazing at George’s crotch, mouth wet. 

“C’mon then,” George bends over him, lets him suck it and Lando’s skillful enough to force it back against him, give friction that makes George gasp even while he’s getting his mouth fucked. “Fucking hell, Lando.”

Lando whimpers and George gets the idea, moves round to fuck him properly and he’s not at all ashamed to hook Lando’s knee over his elbow, push him back into the bed and  _ make love  _ to him. Lando’s lips are swollen, his mouth hot and just a slight taste of silicon on his tongue that only makes George more fond of him. Neither of them is destined to last but Lando’s been a mess for minutes and when George finds the angle that pushes the dildo against his dick hard enough to get him off, he gets his fingers round Lando just in time to make him come. 

George rubs himself off through Lando’s orgasm, pressing as hard on his prostate as on his own dick and Lando grabs him, arching, ecstatic just as George comes.

They cuddle, like always, Lando looking up at him softly and George feeling loved to a degree he barely understands, like he’s exploding internally but in a good way, lit up and excited and maybe he  _ does  _ fucking care about centrepieces because actually, their wedding should be perfect. He had to make way bigger choices about himself, he’s not going to treat Lando as a decorative formality.

Lando’s just falling asleep on him, breathing turned even, when Alex The Cat finally gets hold of the door handle, joining them on the bed to miaow toothlessly in Lando’s ear. George just about manages to stop laughing long enough to throw a sheet over Lando, stop Alex clawing him before he lies back to enjoy them holding a mewling argument, happier than he’d ever thought he’d be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there was gonna be a whole bit with Charles and Daniel but actually I decided it didn't really fit, so that might turn into something else; I set out to write this to be happy and sappy and kinda hot and I hope I did that
> 
> thank you to everyone who's read it in both forms 
> 
> x


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